


Warm in Winter

by Daftinthehead (intravenusann)



Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: EDM Secret Santa 2017, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 02:19:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13137060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/pseuds/Daftinthehead
Summary: Some cold weather and nostalgia.





	Warm in Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Hey this is for tumblr user love-sos for the EDM Secret Santa 2017!

Somewhere out past the other buildings on the horizon, the Thames is frozen over. It’s not any colder in London than in Paris — according to the news playing at the train stations. But the Thames is icy and the Seine isn’t.

“It’s too cold,” Gaspard says. He’s still looking out the high-rise window, as though if he squints he could see the frozen river.

“It was just as cold in Paris,” Xavier says. 

A pause, and then, “Maybe I’ll break this lease and find a place in Ibiza for next winter. Would you like that?”

When Gaspard turns, Xavier sits bent over on the couch with both hands rubbing the curly fur on Chuck’s belly. He looks up and grins. 

“We’d have to train him to be calm on a plane,” Xavier says. “But I’m sure you could do that, for the warmer weather.”

He has a bright look in his eyes that tells Gaspard he’s on the edge of laughing. He could be only joking this far, but his expression says he’d buy tickets to the Mediterranean just to cause trouble. But, Gaspard thinks, only if they went together.

“It’s too hot in Ibiza,” Gaspard says, tucking his hands into his pockets.

Xavier’s laugh startles the dog. Chuck rolls over and shakes himself, then goes around the end of the couch only to crawl beneath it. Xavier softly apologizes to the dog before he stands.

“I’m glad you’ve decided against Ibiza,” he says. 

There’s no prelude to Xavier walking over and kissing his shoulder. Mostly he kisses Gaspard’s T-shirt. The apartment is warm enough that he hung his jacket off the back of the couch. But there’s cold creeping in through the window and Xavier’s touch is a sudden warmth. He brushes Gaspard’s hair away from his skin to kiss the side of his neck.

“Do you remember our first time?” Xavier asks.

Gaspard thinks of the studio.

Bertrand helped them move all the equipment down half a flight of stairs and through a basement door — sort of. The brick had flaking layer of white paint and every layer showed the shape of the bricks. The windows showed people’s shoes when they walked by.

All the money they had from gigs then went toward the equipment and their cigarettes, so the chairs were second-hand and made Gaspard lose the feeling in his toes if he sat for too long.

They smoked until the ashtray overflowed the first day. Gaspard played and Xavier touched his mouth in different ways that somehow communicated whether he liked what he heard — or not.

“That’s so beautiful,” he said, “I could cry.”

Gaspard nearly tripped when he stood up, because he couldn’t feel anything below his knees. Xavier tucked his shoulder against Gaspard’s side and put an arm around around his waist to get him back up the stairs. The feeling of pins and needles in his legs was like magic. Everything seemed possible.

“Well, if we do that again a hundred times, we might have an album,” Xavier told him.

“I’m looking forward to doing it a thousand times,” Gaspard said, at least that’s what he remembers.

In Xavier’s London apartment, he steps slightly back from the window and puts an arm around Xavier so that his hand rests right against his belt.

“Yes,” he says. “We got a lot of work done, I didn’t expect that.”

Xavier looks at him and, up close, only squints with one eye.

“Which first time are you thinking about?” he asks.

“In the studio,” Gaspard says, still feeling a little as though his memories could transport him right back to that brick basement in Paris. “Which time are you thinking about?”

“Not that one,” Xavier says. “Try again.”

Gaspard looks past Xavier to one of the paintings on the wall, expecting it to be Michael Jackson. It’s a painting of the two of them and Chuck, with other smaller drawings framed beside it. 

He kisses Xavier’s hair. “I wasn’t a virgin when we meant.”

“I wasn’t being obscene, Gas,” Xavier protests. He’s laughing again and Gaspard smiles against the side of his head. They’re wrapped around each other now and it’s almost too warm.

“Our first time in London?” Gaspard asks. “Our first kiss? Our first Christmas — actually, I think I got too drunk that time, I’m not sure I remember it.”

Xavier’s narrow shoulders shake and shake with laughter he’s burying down the front of Gaspard’s shirt. When he finally stops laughing, Gaspard loosens his arms around Xavier and lets him pull away. He wipes his eyes rather dramatically with the side of his hand and sighs.

“I actually don’t know if I remember our first kiss,” Xavier says. “Was it on the rooftop?”

Gaspard remembers the tiny quality the little speakers gave all the music they played and the way the wind whipping through the city drowned it out. They had to shout to be heard. Xavier’s front teeth felt like they might split his lip from the force of that kiss.

“No,” Gaspard says. “I thought it was at our apartment.”

“Oh?” Xavier asks. “I thought that was after?”

“No, no, it was before,” Gaspard says. “When you said you thought if two people make a record together, they ought to fall in love.”

“Oh,” Xavier says. He blinks.

Which must just be a happy coincidence, because Gaspard can remember that so clearly. They were in the narrow kitchen with the window open. All the smoke went outside, then, and didn’t cloud the air forever the way it did when they listened to records and smoked for hours in Gaspard’s bed.

“Can people make a record if they’re already in love?” Gaspard had asked. He remembers those exact words.

He remembers the way Xavier set down his cigarette and stood up straight, the way he folded his arms so that his elbow rested in the curve of his hand. It hurt, then, to be so in love. The way it hurts when the blood started to flow into his legs when he got up from an uncomfortable chair or into his fingers when he came in from the cold.

Xavier’s mouth hung open afterward, when he said, “Oh.”

He blinked twice at Gaspard, before Gaspard tried to reach for him. Before he let Gaspard kiss him.

“I think you’re right,” Xavier says, staring at Gaspard while London freezes outside. The window beside them doesn’t even open. The apartment is so big it doesn’t matter how much they smoke, but it does make the dog sneeze.

“Yes,” Gaspard says. “But you were right also. You make the best music when you’re in love.”

“Still in love then?” Xavier asks, letting his mouth curve into a smirk.

“Of course,” Gaspard says, and closes the space between them for a kiss. It’s very warm.

When Xavier pulls away, he has the wide-eyed, smiling look again as though he’s going to tell a joke.

“For our first Christmas, I got you a record because I thought you would like the art,” Xavier says. “Actually, I gave it to you the week before.”

“You did?” Gaspard asks. “I should remember that then.”

“Well,” Xavier says. “Not to ruin the surprise, but I got you some records this year.”

“Are they good?” Gaspard asks.

“I have no idea,” Xavier tells him.

“We should listen to them and find out,” Gaspard says.

Xavier’s smile calls for another kiss and the records — good or bad — call for cigarettes.


End file.
